Delicate fate

What is man’s purpose?
What should man oppose?
Failure?
See, failure has become the cheapest commodity
And most importantly man’s priority
For he often finds himself confused
And induced by the noise of the society
Now!
It’s rare to see another show a different action
Everyone walks on the same pattern

What is man’s purpose?
What should man oppose?
Success?
The tale of Hunger Games
The reality that man’s need would never be met
For as long as he breathes
He becomes addicted to selfishness
And if not careful enough
His last remembrance will be during his funeral

So What is man’s purpose?
Or What should man oppose?

The ALCHEMIST
© 2019

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Lies At Dawn

Without the stars appearing on a special
Night, the Angels singing sweet solemn innocent
Tones, jingles, praises to the mean
World that has seen eons
Of pains, love, gratitude, rejections that overwhelmed
Beauties and ugliness we see as tittle and nominal

I wish to be etched in your heart not as a nominal
Singer, but the beat you call special
The sound that leaves you overwhelmed
Our eyes a spark note of innocent
Thoughts that deified us eons
And mortals who are not mean

Men whose inclinations are mean
Can’t even have us as nominal
gods, but great fellows who are eons
Away from their realms. The one they’d call special
Species of rare grace; innocent
Warriors whose tales gets them overwhelmed

Though life may try to get us overwhelmed
It will never make us mean
Or rid us of the innocent
Company of the earthlight that is not nominal
Or make the moonlight serenade less special
Though it has romanced spirits for eons.

We seem to be overrated eons;
Cowered, callously, carefully overwhelmed
Lovely, little, lowly beings called special
Lower than the angels’ mean
Myrmidons, to the paladin nominal
Praying to be seen as innocent

But words cannot be innocent
We are actually eons
Beings that can never be nominal
Beings grave, gentle griefs overwhelmed
In their search of mean
Means of becoming special

To be as innocent as saint Simeon
The special eon that dwells
In this mean tent.

Simeon Chidi
©2019

Questions Crossed Out

My wailing,
What does it weigh,
Against the sighs of seven billion souls, each,
Digging wounds into my already shattered depths,

My breathing,
What does it matter,
When it’s lost in waves of first winds drawn and last gasps sown,
Lashing earth for eons,

My living,
Is it a rare gem or a speck of dust,
Amongst countless weddings, empires collapsing,
And the universe’s billionth galaxy collision,

The answer,
Is a death to cross these questions out,
The meaning of existence, hanging on a stake,
For my sake.

Ikenna Nwachukwu
© 2018